The Rising Sun
by Thebestmindone
Summary: A post fall, pre-series 3 fic. The American granddaughter of Mrs. Hudson moves into the basement flat at 221 Baker street. Soon John finds himself with yet another "proper genius" on his hands. (This is not a romance fic, this is just an exploration of unanswered questions and my brain going off on a rampage)
1. Chapter 1

Journal of Dr. John Watson

The days pass. At first they didn't, the sun set the day of the fall, and for me, it did not rise again for a very long time. I became a specter, floating around the flat, but you, you were not there. I waited, for you to come home. I waited for something, anything from you. I sat in my chair, put a cup of tea next to yours, and I waited.

Finally, the days stopped blurring together, and I roused myself. I checked your blog, habit I guess, I always read your blog. The posts were the same as you had left them, nothing new, and you weren't there either. I felt another piece of my heart crack open. I rushed to close the window, but something caught my eye. At first I couldn't spot it, couldn't see what was different, and I could almost hear you whisper, "Of course you see, but do you observe?", and there it was. The comments. The sheer number of comments on your blog astounded me, and even as I sat there, the numbers clicked over, climbing still. As I scrolled through, I found you. There you were, in the thousands of variations on "I believe in Sherlock Holmes". The sun peaked its fingertips over the fog.

My times with you were always a glorious high noon, even when pursuing your homeless network. I felt the muscles tighten around my spine, and I sat up straighter. A small measure of curiosity tickled the back of my brain, and on a whim, I checked my own blog. The same held true there, the comments overflowing, bursting at the seams with emotion, with faith. Here also, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" reigned supreme, but that's just because it's you. Now and then, someone broke the chain, "It'll be okay John", "He'll be back soon Doctor Watson", or even "It will all be over soon, and back to the way it was". Was that you? Were you reaching out even then? The fog burned off of the hill tops, and the sky was painted orange with a whisper of dawn.

Not long after I found the comments, I began to find life again. Spoke to Lestrade, poor fellow's always out of his depth without you around, so much so he even offered me a chance to be his new consulting detective. I surprised us both and took him up on the offer. Maybe he will call sometime in the future. Mrs. Hudson informed me of her "special deal", it seems she thinks that I've been spending too much time alone as well.

Instead of making me go out and search for a flatmate, she's bringing one in. Her American born granddaughter. I'll go ahead and assume you knew about this girl, even though I was in the dark. She's set to arrive next week, and Mrs. Hudson has employed my help cleaning up the basement flat for her. Mrs. Hudson's daughter that followed her father to America, I honestly didn't know she existed, but she is kicking this girl out at barely eighteen, insisting she is insufferable. Her name is Billie, and she has spent her whole life in America, except to visit on summer breaks with Mrs. Hudson when she was younger. Still I imagine living in London will be a bit of a shock to her.

...Neither of us discussed giving her your room.

It's just as you left it.


	2. Chapter 2

Arrival

The cabbie set the last of the bags on the sidewalk with a huff. "That'll be all then?" he pushed his floppy hat back with a sigh. "Yes, that's all. Thanks", was all the response he got, his passenger seemed enthralled by the simple green door in front of her. As the cab pulled away from the curb in a cloud of exhaust, Doctor John Watson peered down from the flat window.

Staring down at the windblown mess of dark brown curls, I can't help my curiosity. This is Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter, and I have to wonder what she is like. I watch her gather up her bags and step up onto our steps, and I turn from the window just as a firm knock rings out. "John, dear, could you get that, I just have some last minute things in here, I'm sure its her", Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs rather frantically. Calling back down to assure her I was already on my way, I open the door and come face to face with a rather impressive scowl. "Oh, uh- Hello, I'm Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter, Billie, and you must be the Doctor Watson she told me about?" the words slipped from her so quickly they almost seemed to be racing each other, and she lowered her fist, apparently just about to knock again. Something almost like amusement rattled around my brain, and I reached down to grab one of her two duffel bags, "Yes, my name is John, welcome to Baker Street."

It took a few days to get her settled into the basement flat, but I often found her migrating upwards to the sitting room and kitchen, though she always avoided the empty chair opposite mine. I don't give it much thought, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told her. Even though its been almost three years, Sherlock still has a presence in the flat, and I've been warming up to Billie simply because she doesn't question it. She doesn't question my weird little journal, the outbursts, or the brooding. She blogs, not about anything in particular, just what ever takes her fancy, and she has encouraged me to start blogging again.

Journal

Billie is all settled in at the flat, and I must tell you, its refreshing to have someone other than Mrs. Hudson rattling around in the empty space. This idiotic little journal annoys me, but my therapist insists its helping me cope. I've decided to just treat it like a letter to you. My own personal "Dear Sherlock" collection. Maybe when you come back I'll let you read parts of it. Lestrade called the other day, he said he may have a case in the works that he wants to call me in on. I don't want to go alone. I desperately don't want to face the crime scene alone. Almost as badly as I want to go. I have to be there. I need a case. I feel like you're slipping away from me, and a case will keep you close.

Billie is strangely reserved for an American, no, for any eighteen year old. There is so much more boiling under the surface for her, and it's all kept wrapped up in a sarcastic, cynical shell. Sound familiar? I gathered her parents had a broken marriage, and as the only child I'm sure she was put under a lot of stress. I keep catching myself trying to draw her out, I don't know what I'm thinking. Maybe if I can get through to her, I will get through to myself. The sky is tinted pink and the fog is receding into the deeper hollows.


	3. Chapter 3

Authors note: First off a biiiiiiig thank you to Eloquence991, for giving me my first ever review. I've been working on this story for a very long time, and could probably put up a couple dozen new chapters. Onward to the story though!

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A Case

A riotous pounding on the door rouses me from my latest blog entry. Billie doesn't even glance up from her laptop, just simply slips the other headphone in her ear and retreating back to the world of writing. Briefly I contemplate following her example, before remembering that the sulking teenager act only truly works for teenagers. Sighing irritably I head down the stairs and jerk the door open, ready to read whatever door to door moron the riot act and stared up into the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Greg, I-uh, um, come in, come in." Lestrade swept his cap off of his head and stepped up into the doorway.

"Well John, do you feel like coming in on a case? We could really use an outside view, and your medical knowledge won't hurt either", Lestrade shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. I looked at him in surprise, he really was asking for my help.

"I'd be happy to, let me just grab my coat and I'll be in the car", I turned and jogged back up the stairs and snatched my coat off of my chair before turning around and running smack into a nearly prancing Billie.

"John, let me come with you. I'll be quiet and stay out of your way and I won't touch anything. Please, John I've got to get out of this flat, and I'll just follow you on foot anyways", she varied from begging me to vaguely threatening, and all the while throwing boots, scarf, and coat on. As she tugged her unruly brown curls from the collar of her coat, for a second she reminded me of Sherlock. It passed with a split second, but the fleeting impression swayed me.

"Alright", I sighed and shrugged into my coat.

"John, I swear I wont be a bother, and you know it helps to talk out loud to someone and I can lis-", she cocked her head to the side as my answer sunk in. "Really?", she grabbed me into a hug and released me before I could process the action. This is the most worked up I'd ever seen her, in fact the aloof facade was slipping a bit, I wound my dark blue scarf around my neck, and traipsed down the stairs after her, smiling.

The Scene

As the cab pulled up to a stop on Bayswater Road, I peered out into the gloom. It had been around six in the evening when the detective inspector had called on us, and the eight minute ride to Kensington Gardens had comprised of myself brooding in the corner of the cab, and Billie literally bouncing off the seat in her excitement. I paid the fare then stepped out onto the sidewalk leaving the door open for her to slide out after me.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, Lestrade finally followed up on his threat to call you in, lovely, and I see we've interrupted your babysitting", Anderson's pale face was just as I remembered, sallow and hostile. I opened my mouth ready to correct him, after all someone had to, when a smooth tone cut past me.

"You must be Anderson, and as for the babysitting, well someone has to keep an eye on you, imbecile", Billie was out of the cab and standing at my elbow with a rather snarky smile on her face, and her coat collar turned up against the premature chill of the night. I couldn't decide which was more amusing, her actual insult, Lestrade's muffled chortle, or Anderson's dumbstruck expression. "Sorry Dr. Watson, I know I promised to be quiet, but honestly that man irks me", as she spoke we turned our backs on Anderson and followed Lestrade into the gloom of the tree's.

"I wasn't aware that you had met him, or even knew he existed, as a matter of fact, how did you know that was Anderson?", I had to ask, and while a part of me expected a Sherlock style answer of deduction, I knew that Mrs. Hudson had to of told her. There are only so many proper genius types in the world, and I'd already met three of them. That was more than enough.

"Grandmother mentioned a crime scene technician that gave you and Mr. Holmes a fair bit of annoyance just the other day. I rode with her to lay flowers on his grave, she didn't want to go alone, but you were out", she spoke absentmindedly, gazing around the gardens and occasionally glancing up at Lestrade. Rather surprised, I turned my head and stared at her. I was shocked Mrs. Hudson had shared that much about Sherlock, she always alternated between crying jags, and fits of rage whenever I even vaguely brought him up.

"Yes, okay, but how did you know that particular technician was Anderson?", I was still chewing this over in my mind, on one hand it would be nice to be able to talk about Sherlock with an outsider, and on the other, it all felt too personal.

"It was a guess. Grandmother described him as a peaked faced, pale, little weasel, with a sub-average intellect, fairly accurate in my opinion. Then there was the openly hostile greeting he gave you. Like I said, a guess, but a decent one", she finally seemed to clue into my curiosity and turned to stare at me. Shaking off the sense of deja vu and ghosts, I finally asked the Detective Inspector what the crime was, and where in the gardens we were headed.

"This one is...different, Doctor Watson, something about it doesn't ring true. A murder, and at first, a fairly cut-and-dried one at that. Female victim, in her late twenties, multiple stab wounds to the torso and neck, and through each of her eyes", Lestrade lead us into a small group of trees fenced off by police tape guarded by Donovan.

"Just couldn't stay away could you, Doctor? Funny, I thought freaks were born, but he sure turned you into one didn't he?", she was glaring at me with the same hostility I had first seen with Sherlock all those years ago during A Study in Pink. It seemed that I was now on the rather long list of enemies maintained by Sally Donovan.

"How are the knees Sally?", I winked at her as I ducked under the tape then held it up for Billie to slide under. I saw Lestrade cover a smile again, before he shot Donovan a glare. No love lost in that relationship it seems. They are still on opposite sides of the Sherlock debate.

"As I was saying, she was stabbed over and over, and for once, the killer was kind enough to leave us the murder weapon before fleeing the scene", Lestrade walked us around a tree and there we were confronted with the latest death of London. The woman was wearing dark jeans, and an old faded out Beatles shirt, with black trainers on her feet. She had light blond hair, and freckled skin. All of this was rather overshadowed by the fact that her eyes had been stabbed out and that she was currently staked to the tree by a massive hunting knife leaving her feet to barely brush the ground. I turned to face Lestrade with my eyebrows raised. He shrugged slightly and gave me his customary warning. "I can give you two minutes, let's see what you've got." He turned and walked back towards Donovan after giving Billie a cursory glance. After I had explained who she was, he had allowed her into the scene, after his don't-contaminate-my-crime-scene speech.

"Doctor Watson", a light tap on my shoulder drew my attention back to Billie briefly. She looked torn, but determined. "I don't know how much grandmother has told you about me, but I just thought I should tell you. I graduated high school two years early, and have spent the last two years enrolled at Harvard studying criminology, psychology, and criminal law, so if you would like to bounce your ideas off of me, I'd be happy to contribute my opinion." She expelled this information all in one breath as if it had been rolling around in her head for quite some time, and it had finally come bursting forth. Mrs. Hudson had failed to inform me on any of this, so it was a surprise, albeit a welcome one.

"No, I wasn't told any of that, so this is what you had hoped to do with your life? Become a police officer in the States?", I knew my time was ticking away, but this had my curiosity.

"Yes, that's why I wanted to come with you so desperately", she had set her shoulders and lifted her chin, adopting a defensive stance, and throwing up all manner of walls. It seemed that she was expecting to be rejected, and was bracing herself to not show any feeling.

"Well, then by all means, join me, a second opinion can never hurt," nodded at her warmly before making room in front of the body. She hesitated for a minute before stepping forward and examining the body closely.

The blood from the multiple stab wounds hadn't yet dried completely, and as I was looking at the various stab wounds I pulled gloves on, handing a set to Billie who accepted them before kneeling down looking at the ground. I gently lifted the poor girls chin, her face set in the last look of terror, the joint moved freely. The early stages of Rigor mortis usually sets in, within two to four hours of death, and in the facial and jaw muscles. Resting my palm against various points on her body, I ascertained that she had been dead around an hour, the body was still warm to the touch. I took a closer look at the stab wounds covering her torso and neck, and something caught my eye. There were stab wounds of about two different widths, one matching the knife that kept her trapped to the tree behind her, and a smaller set. It's possible they were made by the same knife, just different depths, but I was inclined to believe that there were two knives present, which suggested two killers. A slight brush against my pant leg caught my attention, Billie was kneeling on the ground inspecting footprints. She rose to her full height and for the first time I appreciated that she was at least two inches taller than me, she just generally stood rather stooped. She circled the tree before coming to a stop next to me once again, inspecting the knife impaling the woman to the tree.

"Well, I see we've got a team work going on here, so what have you two got for me?", Lestrade stood just off to the side with his arms folded across his chest. I turned to look at Billie and she gestured with her hand for me to go first, looking preoccupied by something. I turned back to Lestrade and relayed my findings. "Well, she hasn't been here more than an hour I'd say, rigor has yet to set in even in the facial muscles, and she is still warm. You've got one weapon yes, but I believe you're looking for another smaller knife, as there are two distinct types of wounds. Also, her knuckles are scraped up, that indicates that she fought back against her attackers, but not very successfully. The absence of her eyes is what I find the strangest, they haven't just been stabbed out, they are gone." I shrugged and turned to Billie again only to find a knife dangling by its blade in her gloved fingertips.

"My turn then? I found this jabbed into the backside of the tree. It's the missing knife that you noted. There are two sets of footprints on the ground here. One smaller but deeper, and the other are larger but they aren't as deeply imbedded into the ground. Two attackers, but the prints indicate that they switched positions repeatedly. One would hold her by her shoulders, and the other would stab, and then they would trade off. The fact that the eye's are gone, tells me they took them as trophies, and that's a habit indicative of serial killers, but its rare to see them work in pairs. In pairings like this you will see an alpha personality, and an omega. I'd guess men, judging by the sheer strength it would take to lift a woman of her size, and drive a hunting knife through her like that. Speaking of, she was stabbed in the upper left side of her chest, and the blade is flat, parallel to the ground, so they slipped it between her ribs, probably the second and third, but I'm not the doctor here. You're looking for angry men, working in a pair, possibly a couple. They are smart, and work well in a tandem, for the moment at least. I also don't believe for a second that this is their first kill, either independently or as team. Which leads me to guess this is a random victim." She held the knife out to Lestrade blade first and smiled widely. "Oh, and is there any coffee around? I can't seem to get a taste for tea."


	4. Chapter 4

Journal

Sherlock, as I promised, I went to a crime scene with Lestrade yesterday. When he first showed up at the flat, he assured me that this wasn't the type of case he would usually call in help on, but something was off about it. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Billie cut me off. She was about to levitate she was so excited, and I allowed her to follow me to the crime scene. I blame you for that, it didn't seem right to go alone. Once we arrived at the crime scene, Anderson was his usual washed out self, and Billie's first move was to slap him down verbally after a rather barbed comment directed at yours truly. It was hilarious, and gave me the few seconds I needed to pull myself together. It was horrific, trying to pretend to be okay, pretend that I wasn't missing you so badly it felt as though the center of my chest was on fire. Her quick wit saved me from a breakdown, pure coincidence, but I'm grateful nevertheless. Seeings how I'm typing this out on the computer, I've attached the police report, coroners report, and my initial ideas in a separate document. After we returned to the flat I started running through old crime reports, looking for a previous M.O. that fit our case. There was a report in the late nineties of a woman found stabbed to death in a back alley with her eyes missing, and so far it is the only lead we have. Serial killers were your favorite I seem to remember, and not only do we have a serial killer, we a have a team. Two killers working together on multiple murders, or at least, that's my guess. Upon our return to Baker street Billie shot down to her flat then came back up stairs with her ipod in hand and headphones in her ear. She is sitting across from me, going through the various reports Lestrade emailed over. She's got a legal pad balanced in her lap and her pen hasn't stopped moving since we've returned it seems. I spoke to Lestrade, and he said that provided her paperwork goes through and she's granted a dual citizenship, he would give her a chance at working for the Yard. It didn't seem fair to me that her dreams would be crushed because her mother shipped her out of the country. I can practically hear your scoff, but you know me, I have to do something nice for other people, it's a compulsion. The sun's rising Sherlock, but the horizon is clouded.

Morning

I stumbled down the stairs in a fog, I needed coffee and soon. As soon as I hit the landing my nose was hit with a symphony of bacon, french toast, hash browns, and bless the Lord, coffee. Peering around I can't spot Mrs. Hudson anywhere, but who else would of gone to the trouble of making breakfast? Settling in at the table, feeling the familiar pang of guilt and sense of wrongness that it's not covered in one experiment or another, I started building a plate for myself, sipping at my coffee.

"Oh, you shouldn't of troubled yourself dear, but I do appreciate hot food in the morning", Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs wrapped tightly in her dressing gown, carrying her cup of tea, and settled across the table from me. I paused in the process of reaching across the table for the syrup and stared at her.

"I thought you made breakfast," I stated simply. Had Billie done this? Why?

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson smiled back at me, then raised her eyebrows. "Oh, she must of then. I remember when she was little she loved to cook, I didn't realize that it carried over." A small sound caught my attention, faint music that had been masked by the sound of coffee pot percolating. I turned and there in the corner, underneath a window, her back firmly wedged against the wall and the bookcase, sat Billie. Her legs folded in front of her, laptop balancing on her thighs, cup of coffee steaming next to her knee and piece of bacon in one hand, and headphones pulled snugly over her ears. She glanced up from the screen and nodded at me, before going back to whatever had her attention so firmly.

"Well, she is certainly a good cook, takes after her grandmother then?", I smiled at Mrs. Hudson while pouring syrup onto my stack of french toast. When no answer was forthcoming I looked back up, and found Mrs. Hudson staring at me with a look of befuddlement, and I realized that this was the first time I had truly smiled and lightened up since the fall. Mentally berating myself I reached across and lightly squeezed her hand before picking up a fork and attacking the food with a vengeance.


	5. Chapter 5

While I do have an obscene amount of this fic already written, I don't own Sherlock, I didn't today, and I won't tomorrow.

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Afternoon

"Got you." The silence was broken by a cheerful exclamation from Billie, still sequestered in her corner. She beamed up at me, and then stood and placed her laptop in front of me. "Watch. Traffic cameras from around the gardens before the murder," she played a video and sure enough there was our victim entering the garden at around half past four in the evening. "Now, I've gone through and mapped out all the security camera's that have a view of the Garden and matched the people that went in, with the one's that came out. I've gone through the tapes twice and the victim is the only person to go in, that never came back out. So where are our killers?", she turns and stares at me in irritation.

"Well"' I said slowly, "Lestrade and his team searched the whole of the gardens and they didn't find anyone, much less two blood covered men. Now I supposed it's possible that they evaded the search, but I'd bet you went as far as possible waiting for them to come out. So there must be a blind spot in the camera ring." She nods and pulls up a map of the gardens and points to an area where Westbourne street and Bayswater road intersect.

"There, that's the only place I can't see. They must of known that, and entered and exited from that spot", she sighed and picked up my phone before handing it to me, "call Lestrade would you and let him know." As I was turning the phone over in my hand to call, the screen lit up with a chime. Lestrade calling, the block letters proclaimed. I answered and lifted the phone.

"Watson, we need you, bring the girl, we are at Battersea park, I've sent a car, we have another and this time there is a note," Lestrade ended the call before I had a chance to even get a word in. I turned to Billie and found her dashing downstairs and into her room.

"Be ready in a second, Doctor," she called over her shoulder.

Battersea Park

I'd had time to gather my coat, and knot my scarf around my neck before Billie dashed back up her set of stairs in jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt, and what were unmistakably combat boots. She shot me a smirk before opening the door and lightly almost skipping down the steps to the waiting car. I shook my head in amazement and followed shutting the door firmly behind myself.

On our way to the crime scene I called Lestrade back and filled him in on what we had found so far, both my report of a previous case with the same general aspects, and Billie's camera circus. He informed us that the previous victim had been positively identified as a miss Ana Smith, twenty-eight, and single. The time of death had been confirmed as five in the evening. Upon our arrival at the scene both Anderson and Donovan gave us a wide berth, and contained themselves to sly looks of distaste when they thought Lestrade wasn't looking. It was nearly four in the afternoon when we arrived on scene.

"Now normally, I wouldn't of thought that these cases were even remotely related, but for the eyes. They're gone again. I'll give you five minutes, I need to yell at Anderson anyway," with a rueful shake of his head the detective inspector turned his back and walked away.

This victim was a male, in his late twenties or early thirties. He was on the taller side, and in reasonably good shape. His black hair was cut short and spiked up, his clothes, or what was visible under the blood, consisted of a pair of athletic shorts, and a t-shirt laying nearby on the ground proclaiming "Just do it." The body was stabbed multiple times and the eyes were removed. However, instead of being staked to a tree, the poor chap had been impaled onto the top of a wrought iron fence right at the corner. The tip of the cruel point was peeking out just below his collarbone on the left, but all of this was second to the message in flowing script written across his chest in black marker.

"This one's for the doctor, and his new shadow. Love from our dearly departed sponsor."

I felt a chill slide down my spine at the word sponsor, and chanted to myself in my mind, "Moriarty is dead, he is dead, you know he didn't make it off of the rooftop either. There was too much blood, he is dead." Even so, I felt my hand sliding toward the gun concealed in the small of my back. A gentle nudge at my elbow brought me back to the present and a pair of golden eyes narrowed at me in concern. Billie waited until she was sure I was thinking straight before looking away and pulling her curling brown hair into a hair band.

"Well, Doctor Watson, shall we?" She nodded coolly before stepping back and inspecting the ground and area nearby. I shook off the past and pulled my gloves on. The wounds were all made with precision, but two distinct patterns just like before. A smaller knife, on the last body was a sharp uniform blade, and a larger knife, on the last a hunting knife with a serrated edge. The blood wasn't yet dry, and as I gently moved the poor man's jaw the joint moved with complete freedom, and still warm. Lestrade was walking back now, and I turned to face him.

"Where's your American at?", Lestrade gazed at me with open curiosity. I spun in place looking around, but there wasn't a booted heel, or curling hair to be seen.

"Doctor Watson, who is Moriarty, what is his first name?", the question seemed to come out of thin air and finally I looked up to the roof of the shed where the small animals were generally housed. Sitting on the edge with the two murder weapons in gloved fingers was Billie. The name from seemed to echo around in my brain, no matter what Mrs. Hudson had told her, she couldn't of learned that from her grandmother. It seemed like the earth was shifting under my feet, and from the look on Lestrade's face, he was as dumbstruck as I was. She was kicking her heels against the bricks of the small building, and was watching the two of us reeling in shock with a slightly worried expression. "Um. Shall I just come down then?" Without waiting for an answer, apparently well aware I wasn't capable of coherent thoughts at the time, she rose and instead of climbing back down whatever way she had climbed up she just leaped off of the edge and landed in a well executed combat roll to her feet. Dusting her jeans off she jogged over with both knives in one hand and held them out to the detective inspector. "I found these on the roof. The smaller one just has the initials J.M. etched into the blade, but the larger one has the word Moriarty inscribed into the handle", she looked between the two of us with increasing concern.

Lestrade snapped out of it first, accepting the knives and slipping them into a paper evidence bag and scrawling the necessary chain of evidence information on the side. Finally I broke through the fog of fear, hatred, and grief and focused in on the girl staring down at me with marked concern on her features. A small part of my mind noted that she was standing up perfectly straight now, shoulders squared, but when we were at the flat or in the public, anywhere that wasn't a crime scene, she slouched, her shoulders hunched in slightly as if to protect against a cold wind or blow. Standing straight as she was now with her shoulders squared I'd have to guess her at a few inches shy of six feet, taller than myself by a margin.

The majority of my thoughts were focused on the fact that the second kill of the serial killer team was dedicated to Moriarty. These killers were a part of his massive organization, and now they had left a note directly at me and my young acquaintance. Paranoia and fear were fighting with my stronger reasoning, and I knew that for the moment, I had to get the hell away from the scene. I had suffered PTSD before I had met Sherlock and I knew exactly what an oncoming panic attack felt like. While I was waging an internal battle with myself Billie had left my side briefly and pulled Lestrade to the side. I missed most of the whispered conversation but by the time I focused on them all I heard was a hissed threat from Billie if Lestrade failed to call her later and explain what was happening. She turned back to me and held her arms out to her sides palms facing me in the universal "I'm-not-going-to-hurt-you-see-nothing-in-my-hands-gesture" and started walking forward.

"John. Doctor Watson. Hey it's okay, I've got a cab waiting for us, let's go back to the flat. It's alright, nothing's going to hurt you. I'm okay, and you're okay. Lets just get back to the flat okay?", she kept up a stream of meaningless soothing words and gently herded me towards the waiting cab without touching me. The rational part of my brain was screaming at me to get a grip on myself, for Christs sake its just a name, but the rest of my body was stuck in the flight or fight instinct and all I could do was be grateful for Billie's help. I doubted she learned to handle a PTSD breakdown like this at Harvard, and decided to ask about it later. Once she had me sitting in the back seat of the cab, she walked around the other side and slid in shutting the door. "221B Baker Street please, and go easy alright."

As the cab pulled away from the curb I felt the fine tremors running down my arms and into my hands. I felt worried eyes on me, and struggled to get a grip on the choking fear in my throat. With each minute that passed as we left the crime scene, the paranoia and fear subsided slightly, so by the time we arrived at the flat, I had gone from complete basket case, to nervous and jumpy. Sliding out the cab door and into the flat, I made a dash upstairs and into my room, slamming the door and curling into my self on my bed. In the safety and dark of Baker Street, I let the pain, fear, and grief run its course.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I noticed this story has been getting a few hits, and that makes my wicked little heart sing, I'm not the type to beg for reviews, honestly, but if you wanted to throw one at me, I so would not complain. I still don't own Sherlock, but lets all snigger at the idea of Moffat writing fanfiction to satisfy himself.

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Evening

After hours of hiding out in the dark of my room, a sound finally sliced into the fog of loss and terror that I had let settle into my brain. It is...what is it? I warily raised my head from my pillow, and the sound cleared up slightly. It was singing. Someone was singing to themselves downstairs. I hovered there for a moment just listening. The song was familiar. I just couldn't seem to place it to myself. The soft voice coaxed me off of my bed and to the door of my room.

Briefly I contemplated opening the door, but the panic seized me from behind and I broke out into a sweat standing there. Slipping back toward the place of total terror I had just broken out of, the name of the song finally came through to me. From the doorway I could hear the music accompaniment, and I felt a slight amusement trickle through me. The Rolling Stones were singing in my living room, and from the young clear voice holding a duet with Mick Jagger, Billie was holding a concert downstairs. Laugh I nearly died, a newer song from the Rolling Stones, but one that I admired. The drumbeat was slow and soothing, the guitar low and comforting. Focusing on the music I finally broke free from the crippling fear circling my soul. I'd heard of studies being done where introducing music to a soldiers life after returning from a war would help fight the effects of PTSD, but I was experiencing it firsthand. I wondered if Sherlock hadn't of known that, it could go to explain the violin sessions at three in the morning when a flashback nightmare had me in its clutches. Yet one more thing I owed him. I waited until the song was over, and I was sure I had mastery of myself again before starting slowly down the stairs. For doing nothing but curling into a ball and shaking for the past, I glanced at the clock, three hours, I was exhausted and starving. Halfway down I caught the enticing smell of dinner, and the next song clicked on. I smiled so widely it felt as if my face was cracking, American Woman by Lenny Kravitz. I finished my way do the stairs and wandered into the kitchen to find Billie singing to a pan of potatoes and unless my nose was mistaking me, lasagna in the oven. I couldn't help a small chuckle, and she whirled around to face me with a startled gasp.

"John, I mean Doctor Watson, I hope I haven't disturbed you. I'm making dinner, should be out in ten minutes or so", she smiled at me, while inconspicuously checking me up and down to make sure I was truly alright as I appeared to be. I smiled at her, and sincerely said simply, "Thank you. And call me John if you like."

Journal

Sherlock, if you ever want to pull a miracle out. Now is the time to do it. I know you're more than capable of hacking into my computer from a distance. The two serial killers left another body. This time with a note addressed directly to me and, I quote, my "new shadow". Billie found the two murder weapons on a rooftop nearby, the initials on the smaller knife J.M., and the larger knife had Moriarty inscribed on the handle. We need you Sherlock, I know you're not dead, you're coffin is empty. I had Lestrade x-ray it. Cinder blocks, really Sherlock? I'm going to explain everything I can to Billie tonight, she deserves to know what type of people we're dealing with, and the chance to get out now. I doubt she will, she's brave, and stubborn. Smart too, but she doesn't really appreciate the danger she is in. People have died, and now she is in the cross-hairs as well.

This part is embarrassing, but I have to get it out. When she found the knives, Billie asked Lestrade and I who Moriarty was. It caught me off guard. His name. She said his name. It triggered a PTSD attack. It's been worse ever since the fall, and any mention of Moriarty has been triggering the effects. This was terrible. Remember Baskerville? It was a lot like that. Crippling fear, paranoia, and grief, all wrapped up into one. The shaking, and deep desire to be isolated as well. I've never had an attack that bad before. I spent three hours in my room curled up into a ball shaking, sweating, and panicking. Music brought me out of it. I guess that doesn't surprise you. And it sure explained those three AM violin sessions of yours. You knew I was having a flashback, and woke me up with music. Billie brought me out with The Rolling Stones, she was singing while she was cooking. I don't think she knew what she has done for me. But I'm in her debt. We need you back Sherlock. Not just for me, or Mrs. Hudson, or anyone that cares about you. But for the case. For the sake of the case. Today the sun almost died behind thunderclouds, but its rising further everyday.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This story has been getting more hits than I ever imagined, so thank you! Also, this was my first attempt at writing fanfiction of any kind, so I'm glad someone other than myself is enjoying it. Reviews would be cool though... Wink wink nod nod. Anyways, on to the story.

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The Next Afternoon

I tossed my phone onto the table top. I'd just gotten off the phone with Lestrade apologizing for my reaction at the crime scene yesterday. I assured him that I've found something that helps, but I haven't yet put my plan into motion. Despite my best intentions I never got around to explaining to Billie last night. She is sitting on the couch watching me pace back and forth calmly. I envy her composure. I'm a right mess. Just as I'm working out the words she kicks her boots to the floor from the table.

"I know some about Moriarty. So let me save you the pain. I know he self-titled himself a consulting criminal. I know you and Sherlock were on his tail. I know he is responsible for a great many crimes, and I know he is the reason for Sherlock's... fall. I'm sure these two killers are a part of his crime ring. But I don't know why they are still acting out in his name. You and Lestrade both think he is dead, even though a body was never found. So what I want from you isn't a back story, I want to know why his name affected you like that", she ended her speech with a toss of her hair and then stared at me almost defiantly. I dropped into my chair next to the fire. I was relieved I didn't have to relive those last months when Sherlock and Moriarty danced around danger. However, she wanted to know why I had gone full on PTSD yesterday. I sighed and turned to face her.

"Before I met Sherlock I had just returned from Afghanistan, wounded. Suffering from PTSD and depression. I had a psychosomatic limp and I was about to eat the muzzle of my gun. Then I met him. He cured my limp, he brought light back into my life. Gave me a purpose to live again. I felt like I was doing something useful, helping him on these cases. I still had flashbacks, mostly at night, and looking back those were the nights he would wake me up with his violin at three in the morning. Then Moriarty happened. And the world believed that he was a fake, and he jumped off of the damn building. I was alone again. I had lost my best friend, and my savior. Because of Moriarty. I nearly died multiple times. Now in my mind he is tied up with all of the bad from Afghanistan, and the PTSD has been coming back worse than ever lately." I paused there. She was watching me with that same carefully crafted calm look on her face, but I caught a glimpse of sympathy and complete understanding in her eyes that I wasn't expecting. "I also need to thank you. For pulling me out of that yesterday, I've never had an attack so badly before. I don't know if you did it on purpose or on a happy coincidence." She was still staring at me, then she shook herself slightly.

"It was intentional. A long shot, but I did it very much on purpose. My father was a veteran, and he suffered PTSD too. Music was always something that could pull him out of an attack, or stop one in its tracks. Eventually, he got past it and moved on with his life. Something about the music he said. So I took a shot, I didn't know what else to do. I knew enough that I needed to present myself as a non-threatening figure. And not to touch you. So I sang. I don't have the greatest voice ever, but my dad always said that a real person is better than a recording." She had curled slightly in on herself. I know she didn't like to reveal that much of herself, and that she was putting her trust in me. I appreciated it, talking about Sherlock and Moriarty was rough. I sighed and then smiled at her.

"I know this is awkward to ask but, do you think you could help me with these attacks. Maybe, sing to me or...", I trailed off, this was incredibly awkward, and stared at the floor. I heard the couch shift around and looked over. She was sitting forward on the cushions, and she had her iPod in hand, and she was grinning at me.

"I'll keep my iPod on me at all times. And you'll have to put up with my singing. I pity you that. But of course I'll help you, and this way we can work the case without another repeat of yesterday. We'll just tell the police that I'm an eccentric American, because I am, and that I sing when I think." She had not only answered my question, offered her help, and given me an explanation that wouldn't incur the ridicule and pity that I would of any other way. I was more deeply in her debt than I realized.

"Thank you", I smiled back at her and at that moment a resounding knock boomed up the stairs from the door.

"Three hits, sounds like he almost put his fist through the door, Lestrade must have something for us", she kicked her feet back up on the table and slid a headphone in one ear. I noticed that she had at least two sets, one that were simple ear buds, and one that covered her ears completely. She uses the earbuds almost all the time, except when she needed to focus her attention on something.

"I'll let him in before he breaks the door", I turned and started down the stairs.

Journal

She's agreed to help me. Turns out she has had a past experience with PTSD, her father apparently. Now she carries her iPod everywhere, and bursts into song randomly. She's even gone so far as to follow Donovan around singing random bits of the musical Cats. Her taste in music is eccentric at best. From classic rock, to country, to modern rock, even musicals and movie soundtracks don't escape her. Even when I'm not in danger of an attack, she's just laying the base so people don't question her singing when I'm actually having an attack. She knows something about Moriarty that she isn't letting on, perfect pronunciation on his name the first try. And that question about his first name. I guess I'll have to delve into that another day. Today has been too tense already.

Lestrade came over. Turns out the second body was one Thomas Andrews, and his widow is out of the country. They were on the verge of a split, and she had taken some time off. As soon as she gets back Lestrade is going to interview her and offered to let me ride along. Other than that, we haven't found a connection between the two victims yet. Billie keeps cooking, she's let me in that cooking is what she does when she thinks. Also, she is a good cook, and for once during a case everyone in the flat is well fed.

Sherlock, if you've been reading these, please look into the case. Show us the connection, help us stop these killers. They are Moriarty's underlings, and if you are still out there, isn't that the type of people that you are hunting down? Come home. Please. The sun has finally burned away most of the fog, the shadows reside in deep valleys.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: First off, apologies for taking so long to update. My new laptop, that I've had for eight days decided to take a massive crap. So I'm sending it back. Again. *Shakes fist at HP*. Anyways. New chapter. Enjoy.

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Realization

I stared at Lestrade blankly. I swear the man speaks in tongues when the mood strikes him. Because if he was speaking plain English he would of just informed me that an anonymous tip had been left at the Yard with Sherlock's prints on it. Actually not a tip, just a blank sheet of paper with one word typed on it. Wrong. Typical freaking Sherlock. Lestrade's being cautious, he thinks it could be a trick. Doesn't want to get his hopes up, or mine, and I understand that. It feels like my whole world is being tossed upside down, and some how, it feels like its going back to the way it should be. All of this time I've believed in Sherlock, I've known in my heart that he was still alive. But this. This is proof. Now its gone from wanting to believe so badly that it hurts, to knowing he is alive. I just have to find him. Billie is sitting next to me on the couch with a look on her face that I used to associate with car wreck victims. She starts humming softly to herself, but I think its more to calm herself down rather than out of worry for me.

"You double checked the prints?", I had to ask., even as Lestrade shot me a look of disgust and a swift nod. I'm still in a state of shock. After three years, this is the way he decides to break the ice? My train of thought is interrupted by a phone's incessant ring. Billie groans as she checks the screen then answers the call.

"I should kill you...you knew the whole time and you didn't tell me... Yes it's obvious I'm upset isn't it?... No, I haven't... And you?.. Right. No, I'll tell them now. They're both here... No don't show up, then I will kill you. You realize what this looks like? No don't answer, you did this on purpose. Good-bye you pompous shit-bag." She hangs up and in the same motion flings her phone across the room and into my armchair. I stare at her in surprise, I've never seen a sign of temper before, but now I think she just had it on a tight of leash as all her other emotions. Lestrade's eyebrows are rising towards his hairline alarmingly.

"John. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound terrible, and chances are any trust you have in me, provided you trust me at all, is about to be shattered. I apologize for that. I believe you know a certain Mycroft Holmes?" she spits his name out and her expression twists briefly into the mask of a killer. I would know. I've seen that expression on my own face. Lestrade sits forward in his chair.

"That's Sherlock's brother isn't it? But why do you know him?" even on top of the monumental shocks he has received today, his interrogation skills kick in. Billie is staring at the ground, pointedly avoiding any eye contact.

"Yes, but I didn't know that until about thirty seconds ago. Until this point I didn't even know his last name. When my father returned from the war, and after he got his PTSD under control, he took what he assured me was a minor position in the government. By minor position he meant, he was the damn government. I didn't learn this until his death about a week before I was shipped off to London. A man named Mycroft called me, and explained that he worked with my father in parallel positions in their respective governments. According to my father's will, Mycroft has assumed the role of my...protector. He has complete control over my bank accounts, and as such, the pension my mother was receiving as a result of my parents divorce has been stopped. She kicked me out as a result. It was Mycroft that suggested I move in with my grandmother, in London. I just assumed that he wanted me close by to keep a better eye on me. I didn't even know about Sherlock until I arrived here, and I just found out that they are brothers. He knows about the note, and has given me an order to relay to you two. He wishes that we not try to find Sherlock. He insists that he will show himself at the right time, and that if we do as Mycroft wishes, he will release the information he has withheld thus far about Moriarty, consequently clearing Sherlock's name." She falls silent then and crosses her arms leaning into the arm and back of the couch, gaining as much room between herself and Lestrade, and I as humanly possible.

"Mycroft wants us to not search for Sherlock?" I stare at Lestrade in surprise, and Billie's head flicks up involuntarily. This wasn't the bit of information I expected him to focus on. "Well, then I suppose we won't will we, after all, we want Sherlock back, and his name cleared up", he glances between the two of us and shrugs. "Honestly, I know how manipulating that man is, I'm not upset with you Miss Justus, and I imagine Doctor Watson isn't either, we are reasonable men," with this he stands up and pulls on his coat. "I'm off to the Yard to head off the investigation into that note. You two, do try to behave?" He turns on his heel and almost sprints down the stairs. "Oh and by the way", Lestrade's head pops up above the last stair and he smirks at Billie, "your dual citizenship has just come through, so now I suppose you best behave yourself." With that he whirls and the slam of the door echos back up at us.

I turn and look at Billie, she's watching Lestrade's retreating back with a kind of wistfulness. Finally, she turns back and looks me in the eye. I know she is upset with Mycroft and his inevitable meddling, she's upset that she is more closely connected to this case than she first realized, but that doesn't account for the fit of temper. She smiles slightly, relief over her citizenship I think, before her expression falls back into carefully constructed blankness.

"I don't like being used as a pawn, Doctor Watson", she states simply. I ignore the fact that I'm back to "Doctor Watson".

"You think Mycroft moved you here with a purpose?", the questions barely left my lips before she scoffs at me and rolls her eyes. "Right, he does everything with a purpose, never mind." My mind is reeling, Sherlock is alive, there is proof. He is in London, or at least nearby and aware of the case. The only dim spot is Mycroft's restrictions on our actions. I wish I understood his reasoning.

"What was his first name, this Moriarty?" Billie pins me with a stare that is equal parts desperation and denial.

"Jim. Jim Moriarty. Why?" I watch her expression tighten until the edges of her face are sharp enough to cut glass. She hissed through her teeth and settles back into the couch, twirling a pen off the table between her fingertips.

"Jim Moriarty was a professor at Harvard during my brief studies there. He taught a criminal psychology class, the irony is astounding." As she speaks the pen twirls with increased speed before she flings it point first into the wall to her right. I stare at her blankly, that was one of Mrs. Hudson's fountain pens, and sharp enough, but to make it stick in the wall for a few seconds before clattering to the floor showed not only strength, but a capability in knife throwing. What other hidden skills and secrets is my new flatmate holding onto?

"You're absolutely sure that his name was Jim Moriarty?" even as I'm double checking I'm up off the sofa, and grabbing her phone from the chair.

"I've checked online. It's the same person. He is the same. He's just as I remembered." Unexpectedly she leaps off the couch and over the coffee table with a long stretch before flying down the stairs and into her room with a slamming door. I've already dialed Mycroft back and I sit down to have a serious conversation with the older Holmes. The call goes to the machine with out a message, I hang up without leaving a word. Just as I hang up a text comes through.

**Rather busy Doctor, don't you have a phone of your own? MH**

**You wouldn't answer even if I called. JW**

**How astute. MH**

I toss the phone to the side with a look of disgust. Just then my phone lights up with a call from Lestrade. "Watson. I've pulled a complete halt to the inquiry of the note, and destroyed all records of the fingerprint analysis."

"Lestrade listen. When Billie was at Harvard, she had a professor in criminal psychology, named Jim Moriarty. She is convinced he is our Moriarty. Can you check into it?"

"Christ. Some bastards don't die when their hearts stop do they? I'll look into it personally." With that the connection cut off. I frowned down at the phone, just as footsteps dashed back up the stairs. Billie came to a stop in the doorway with a suspicious gleam in her eyes. She'd changed from the sweats she had on earlier into black jeans tucked into knee high black boots, a deep emerald green sweater, grey scarf, and long black coat. I wondered if Mrs. Hudson had bought that coat for her, then decided she probably had. Standing there with her long brown curls tumbling haphazardly down her shoulders, she couldn't of looked more like a female version of Sherlock if she had tried.

"John. I need to go back to the two crime scenes. If these killers learned under Moriarty, then I have something in common with them wouldn't you say? Maybe I'll see what I've been missing. Will you come with me?" She was standing differently, more upright, more confident, her shoulders squared and every line of her body proclaiming readiness. I grabbed my coat and scarf in answer, and together we thundered back down the stairs.

Reexamine

Back in Kensington Gardens, the crime scene has long since been cleared, but we find the scene of the murder with ease. The tree that once had the young woman's body impaled on it in its small clearing surrounded by various other types of trees. Billie stares up at the tree for a minute before spinning and looking closely at the nearby trees, she turns back to stare at the central tree before casting her eyes downward.

"Doctor Watson, what type of tree is this?", she indicates the one that Ana Smith had been found on with a flick of her hand.

"Well, I'm no expert, but it looks like a chestnut tree. Is it?" I watch her carefully, her expression is blank and glacial.

She murmurs her answer in a monotone voice, still somehow conveying the pain she's feeling, "More specifically it's the sweet chestnut, and in the christian faith its been know to symbolize goodness, chastity, and triumph over temptation. Now look over there, the tree with the pink blossoms is a Cherry tree, Celtic faith recognizes it as a symbol of death and rebirth, a new beginning. And over there, the opposite side? That's a Birch tree, Celtic faith recognized it as a symbol of a cleansing, of the past mainly. Now put it all together. A young woman killed on a tree that symbolizes chastity, surrounded by trees that together symbolize new beginnings and cleansing of one's past. Professor Moriarty was quite a symbolist. In fact, he would study old cases looking for subtle symbols. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he had taught that to his underlings. Probably even insisted on it.

So what do the symbols tell us?" She huffs out the last word and in one smooth movement uncurls her right arm, striking her fist into the bark of the tree directly over the knife marked and bloodstained area.

I lunge forward, catching her arm before she can repeat the move and examine her knuckles. "They tell us, Doctor Watson, that this woman was someone the killers saw as pure, but something happened to change that, so they killed her in an area with trees symbolizing cleansing and rebirth, on a tree literally dedicated to chastity. This killing was not random at all. And neither was the next one."

I lightly touch the top of her knuckles where the skin has split open from the force of her blow and the rough surface of the tree. Bruises are already starting to show around the joints, and blood is dripping down her wrist, but she hasn't seemed to notice. She's staring into the trees with a wrecked expression, I doubt she even feels the pain yet. I wrap her hand up in a handkerchief that I carry in my back pocket and then step into her line of sight to ensure I have her attention.

"So you missed obscure tree symbols. Why exactly would you have been looking for them? You couldn't possibly know that your old professor was our killers mentor, you didn't even know of his involvement in London's crime yet. You didn't even know that this crime would have any symbols at all, let alone tree symbols from multiple religions. So enough self blame, and if you hit another tree, I'll hit you myself, and lock you in the flat. Am I clear?" She's staring at me with narrowed eyes, but after a few seconds pass she nods slightly.

"You're right. It doesn't make it any better but you're right. Lets go to the next crime scene, I bet there will be symbols of the same nature there. Maybe we'll be able to find the connection now." She blinks down at her hand in surprise then looks back at me. "Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I just noticed the difference. What is two or three pages in Google docs, is like half a page here. Gah. Anyways, thanks for all the positive feedback about The Rising Sun. It's my first stab at fanfiction, and I rather love it. Enough of my blithering. Story on.

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Back at the Zoo

The second crime scene has been cleaned up considerably, but is still surrounded by blue police tape. It was due to open within the next few days to allow the zoo to resume normal operating. Sliding under the tape we walk over to the building when Billie nudges me and points to a small white dove sitting on the edge of the roof.

"The nest near here, maybe even under the roof itself. Christian faith states that the dove symbolizes forgiveness. Celtic beliefs recognize any type of bird as a sign for the transition from life to death. What type of animal do you think they house here? Something that small children can interact with and touch. I checked. They keep domesticated deer in the shed, and many assorted religions recognize deer as symbols for love, gentleness, kindness, and purity. Now look at the fence. Iron. Cold iron specifically. Believed by the world over to trap, harm, or imprison spirits of all types." She gestures to each object in turn before turning to look at me dispirited.

"So, symbols of purity, forgiveness, and more like that. A man killed and left on a fence that's believed to harm spirits, or trap them. So whatever the connection between the two is, the killers were trying to save her, and punish him." I spoke slowly, but I was sure of what I was saying. This made sense, if this is how Sherlock feels all the time, no wonder he is so insufferable. Billie nods at me slightly.

"So it would seem. Now we just have to figure out why he was punished. Let's go visit Lestrade."

New Scotland Yard.

As the cabbie pulls up outside, I glance over to Billie once again. She has both headphones in her ears and the music turned up loud enough for me to recognize one of her favorite bands, Shinedown it sounds like this time. My handkerchief is still tightly wound around her knuckles, but the bruising is showing on her fingers and back towards her wrist. That kind of damage, from a single hit, someone somewhere has shown her how to throw a punch, then given her the muscle training to do it with force. I gently tap her shoulder then open the door and slide out, she follows, turning the volume down and pulling one headphone from her ear.

"Well, let's go tell Lestrade what you've found, and maybe he has had some luck in finding Mrs. Andrews," I gently take her elbow and lead her towards the doors. At the security checkpoint I show them the special permit pushed through by Mycroft allowing me to carry a handgun anywhere in the country, even into the Queen's bedchambers as he put it. Billie on the other hand waltzes through the metal detector, looking remarkably unsurprised as it lights up. She sticks her left foot forward showing the metal buckles running up her boots, and then lifts her sweater to show the metal buckle on her belt, and after a quick check with a wand we are both waved through. In the lift on our way up to Lestrade's office she suddenly smirks, then turns to me.

"Dr. Watson, what are the odds of running into Donovan up here? I could do with verbally abusing her today," she messes with her iPod then grins fully at me. I smile back at her, relieved she is acting more herself. The lift shudders to a halt, and the doors open with a chime. We both step out onto the floor and head for Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.

"John! Oh and you brought along the young American as well, good, I've got good news for you, Thomas Andrews widow flew in earlier today. In fact, Donovan is just settling her into a room, then we can question her", Lestrade strides toward us with a box of doughnuts in one hand and steaming cup of coffee in the other. Billie slips a pair of doughnuts from the box with a wink and hands one to me. He frowns down at her hand wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief, but moves past it.

"Good, and we have something to talk to you about as well", I nod to Billie and she fills him in on Moriarty's symbolism obsession and the connections at the crime scene, omitting her personal frustrations and claiming that her hand was injured in an incident with a cab door. I catch Lestrade's eye and shake my head slightly but other than that I let it pass. He leads us to a pair of doors both marked Interrogation Room 1, he gesture towards the one on the left.

"Sorry Billie, but I'm going to have to ask that you just observe this one, John we go through here on the right," Lestrade opens the door and steps through leaving space for me at his heels. Billie nods at me slightly before disappearing into the observation room.

The Interrogation of Emily Andrews

Sitting at a cold steel table in a straight backed wooden chair, is a woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties, her hair a dull shade of blond bordering on light brown. As the door clicks shut behind me, her eyes snap up to meet mine, a mousy shade of brown staring right through me, and my first impression is that this is a woman easily forgotten, easily controlled. I take up residence against the wall opposite of what I know is a two-way mirror, and Lestrade sits down facing the poor widow.

"Mrs. Andrews I know this is a difficult time for you, and you have my deepest condolences but, we need to understand more about your late husband, can you tell us anything out of the ordinary, anything that seemed off." Lestrade speaks softly and in a comforting tone, setting the box of doughnuts to the side, and the cup of coffee in front of her. Her gaze wanders over to him and she absentmindedly picks up the coffee.

"Ex. My ex-husband, I had signed the papers and sent them back just the day before he was...killed," her voice, just like her physical appearance come across as mild, unremarkable, and at first I have to focus my entire mind on her to process that she is actually speaking. It's disturbing, but in the offhand way that doesn't stick in your mind. There is something very off about this woman. She continues speaking, in the same monotone, "He had been having an affair, at first I thought it was just physical, but he told me that he was going to ask her to marry him, and that he wanted a divorce, I booked my ticket to Italy the next day. I've been traveling ever since. I don't even know the woman's name, but I know she worked as a barmaid at The Swan, its on Bayswater road, he used to stop there nearly every day. That's all. Our relationship has been distant at best for the past year, I don't think there is anything else to tell you." My phone buzzed in my pocket, a text message, I slipped it out and checked it, from Billie.

**Ana Smith, barmaid The Swan I'm going there now, finish interview. BW**

**Don't go alone. JW**

**Sure, I'll take Donovan. Honestly Dr. I'm fine. BW**

I hissed out my breath irritably, she still underestimated the type of people we were dealing with here, I pulled up Mycroft's contact and sent him a quick message.

**Billie off in London alone, do something useful and keep an eye on her. JW**

**Always Doctor. MH**

I slipped my phone back in my pocket and attempted to show some interest in the conclusion of the interview.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Wow. Thank you guys so much for the reviews, follows, favorites, and views. This started out as me going a little hiatus crazy, and we've all been there. I never expected anyone else to enjoy it as much as I did. So here is another chapter. I'm catching up to what I already had written so updates will be even more random. . Anyways. Review if you have the guts!

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Billie, Near The Swan

"Sixty-six Bayswater Road please," the cabbie nodded at her as he pulled away from New Scotland Yard. Settling back against the faded vinyl seats she struggled with the sense of wrongness. Leaving Doctor Watson behind like that was a backhanded move, but it didn't make sense to keep them both tied up with the mousy woman. He could easily finish the interview with Lestrade and catch him up to speed on the latest findings while I went to The Swan, she rationalized to her self. Crossing her legs, she checked on the knife tucked into the inside of her left boot with her right hand, wincing slightly as the cracked skin pulled and re-opened.

"Here we are, Miss", the cab slowed to a stop in front of a two story white building with "The Swan" written across the top in two places.

"Keep the change," handing the fare over the top of the front seat, Billie stepped out into the brisk London air. Fall was coming, and already the weather was turning. Stepping inside, the atmosphere of a small pub surrounded her. Cheerful voices, warm lighting, and the sounds of a band tuning up in the back. Walking up to the bar in the center of the room she smiled at the older gentleman behind the counter.

"Well, good-evening lassie, and what can I get you?" Smiling back at him politely she pulled a photograph of Thomas Andrews from her pocket and handed it across.

"Have you seen this man come in before? Maybe only during a certain waitress's shift? He's a cousin of mine and we're all getting rather concerned about him." The old man set down the mug he had been polishing with a rag and squinted down at the picture.

"Oh, you mean Tom is your cousin? Ye', I seem to remember him coming in when Ana was on the clock, took quite shine to her he did. Matter of fact, he was real tore up when the news came in about her. Murdered she was, in the park just across the road here, we were all upset o' course, but he took it harder than most. Nice girl she was. Haven't seen him since she was found."

"Thank you so much, I'm sure he'll turn up eventually." With a smile she slipped a five pound note into the tip jar, and turned on heel, stepping back out into the brisk wind. Slipping her phone free from her pocket she turned in the direction of Baker Street and dialed Doctor Watson, mindless of the footsteps trailing her.

Doctor Watson, New Scotland Yard

"Well, she's almost as dead of an end as her late ex-husband. The personality of dry wall too." I nodded in agreement and settled into a chair across the desk from Lestrade. I was worried about Billie roaming the streets of London by herself, but with Mycroft watching her I felt a little better. We spent the next ten minutes going over the symbolism from the crime scenes, and the connections. We were now sure that Thomas Andrews had been cheating on his wife with Ana Smith, and that had been the reason both had been killed, unfortunately this didn't bring us any closer to the identities of our killers. Just as I was standing up to say goodbye, my phone went off again. I saw Billie calling and answered in relief.

"Billie, good, how did it go?"

"Just fine Doctor, nothing we didn't expect. I'm walking home now."

"Why don't you just catch a cab, Lestrade's giving me a ride and we can discuss the interviews."

"Because I'm halfway there and all these cab rides are making me fat. Besides it would make it harder for my tail to follow me if jumped in a cab. You have Mycroft watching me don't you?"

"...well. Yes I do. But-"

"Easy, Doctor. I know this isn't one of his people, usually they aren't this moronic. Seems I've caught someone else's attention. This way we might get their identity on camera. And if they get too close, I'll take them out. Gotta go now. See you at home."

The line went dead and again I found myself hissing at my phone in a nearly cat like gesture.

"Lestrade, we need to go. Now." I turned and with him at my heels dashed out of the office.

Baker Street

"Oh, John, I'm so glad you're home, she's upstairs and wouldn't let me call for a doctor," Mrs. Hudson met me at the door and as I dashed up the stairs I could hear Lestrade stopping to soothe her. I came into the kitchen to find Billie grimacing and peeling a sweater off. Blood running down her left arm and dripping onto the tile. She turned and looked at me apologetically.

"Afraid I'm making a bit of a mess here, John," I grabbed her arm and inspected it, finding a graze from a bullet lacing across the top of her bicep. Superficial thankfully, but it needed to be stitched up.

"Next time you're taking the bloody cab, do you hear me?" I snapped at her before nudging her towards a chair and going upstairs to grab my medical bag.

"Yes, Doctor." She grinned at me and set her arm up on the table so I could begin to clean and suture it up.

"Bloody hell. What the devil did you get into this time?" Lestrade took a seat across the table from our makeshift operation and stared at her in disbelief.

"Well, on my way home from The Swan, I picked up on someone tailing me. So I took a chance on it and turned down an alley and waited. I figured either they would want to keep their cover and keep walking, or that they had been told to confront me, and they would come after me. Either way we would find out what they looked like, and possibly who they were. Jesus, Doctor! Do you have to pull so?" I looked up from my stitches and just glared in answer. She rolled her eyes at me and looked back to Lestrade. "Anyway, he followed me down the alley. About five foot six inches if I had to guess. Packing a .45 colt. Typical American gun most would say. I caught him in the leg with the knife from my boot, and he got me in the arm before stumbling his way out of the alley. I made it here about two minutes before you guys did. I already called Mycroft and he is sending me the camera footage from the route I walked to get home. As soon as Doctor Watson stops abusing me at needlepoint here I'll pull it up." She smiled at me then sat quietly.

"Lestrade, I'm beginning to think that we've aroused some rather unwelcome attention here," I finished my last stitch and wrapped her arm up in gauze before picking up her right hand and unwrapping it, "In fact, it would seem that Billie has even made herself a target. Don't you think it might be time to tell Mycroft to go stuff himself and find Sherlock?" A small whimper caught my attention and I looked over into Billie's tense face then down at her hand. "Oh hell. You've definitely broken at least one finger and two knuckles. Well done you."

"I'm going to head back to the Yard. I'll call Mycroft from there. And you two, do kindly try not to get hurt while I'm away." With that Lestrade got up and left down the staircase.

"Well, now what Doctor?", she pulled her hand back and flexed it a couple of times. Nothing was broken, but it was best if we let Lestrade believe that the cab door story was actually true. I felt I owed her at least that. after all she had done to keep my PTSD under control, I could allow her this dignity.

"Now we find Sherlock."

Journal

Sorry it's been so long since I've written, you wouldn't believe the pile of shit we've gotten ourselves into. Right now Billie is cooking dinner, which she claims to be an old family recipe, but smells suspiciously like shepherds pie. She overrode Mrs. Hudson's complaints and set up a speaker system along the main floor of the flat, and now has Hotel California going. Every now and then she'll move in a way that causes her to wince. Between her assault on the tree, and now a bullet grazing her arm she is starting to look like a warrior. Someone we suspect to either be one of our killers or someone working for them followed her the other day. I'm blaming myself. I knew I shouldn't let her go off on her own into London, but I never expected her to come back with a bullet hole.

Sherlock, this is borderline insanity. If you really were out to get the remnants of Moriarty's associates you've missed these two. I know you are either in the city, or nearby, but for some reason we mere mortals cannot reason through you are staying out of it. Whatever has you so preoccupied I hope it is worth it. I think I'll lay off the journaling for now. Focus on the case before someone here catches a bullet, again, and ends up as dead as you pretended to be.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Happy Valentine's day. I'll be spending it at my keyboard. Read and review my lovelies. This is the end of all that I had pre-written so my updates are going to be, well, spastic.

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Progress

I close the window on my journal and stare off into space. Right as I'm getting ready to dive deeper into the depression that always circles these days Billie pops her head around the corner.

"Foods up, Doc. Afraid you're going to have to bring your plate in here though." With no further explanations she disappears into the kitchen. With a rather impressive sigh I rise and venture in. The sight in front of me catches me completely off guard. The stove top is covered by a shepherd's pie frankly large enough to put an end to world hunger, along with what smells like freshly made dinner rolls, and a salad set off to the side. The table, is covered in case notes, crime scene photos, a police badge, and Billie's laptop, iPod, and phone. The clutter is something Sherlock would do, and I'm surprised to see this level of disorder from anyone else. Although it looks like a bomb made of paper and electronics has gone off, I know she has a system going. Already she is back at the keyboard with her headphones pulled over her ears and a half eaten roll in one hand. I walk past her and begin building a plate, but as I turn back to walk to my chair, I catch a glimpse of her bullet wound, the bandage is holding, but blood is seeping slowly through. I'd hoped it would stop bleeding by now. Staring at the red stain against her skin and the pure white of the bandage I can't help but feel angry at Sherlock all over again. If he would just stop his childish games, and find these killers, then we could all feel safe. Instead, we are all living in a state of worry. Lestrade called earlier to say that he had assigned an unmarked car to circle by our flat on a regular basis, and I've taken to carrying my pistol from room to room, even now its secured in its holster at my back. I haven't seen Billie carrying any obvious weapons, but something tells me she isn't walking around unarmed either.

"Billie," I gently shake her shoulder to call her attention to me. She finally stops typing and slides her headphones off.

"Yes, Doctor?", she stares at me with a blank expression, I can't help an involuntary glance at her computer screen. She's got a chat of some sort open with Mycroft, the last message on the screen simply reading.

**I know your secret. Bx**

"Billie, you must call me John. I've wrapped your bloody knuckles, and patched up a bullet wound, and you've pulled me from plenty of attacks, I think we can use first names," she smiles slightly at me.

"Alright, what's up?" at her open expression I hesitate. I know what I'm about to suggest is going to upset her. It's upsetting me enough as it is, but something needs to change.

"I think we should leave London for a few days. I know what you're about to say, your face is saying it all well enough. I'm not suggesting anything even semi permanent, just getting out of town until things cool down and maybe your arm stops bleeding." I watch her expression, and as I expected her eyes narrow at me and she shakes her head slightly. I'm prepared to launch into a verbal battle with her when I notice her pulling up the other tab of her browser on her laptop.

"I have to agree. In fact, I'm a bit ahead of you," Billie grins at me and shows me an image of a satellite map and points to a rooftop. "This house was my fathers. Its about an hour and half out of London, provided you follow the speed limits, and we can work from there. Not to mention that no one should be able to connect the house to us, seeing's how it is in my father's old secretary's name. We can leave by midnight tonight, if you'd like?"

"You know Billie, I'm rather glad we are on the same side," I smile at her and head upstairs to eat while I pack, calling over my shoulder, "but how are we going to get there, I don't imagine you'll want to take a cab."

A small chuckle drifts up the stairs, "No, John, we most definitely will not be taking a cab."

Flight from London

"You can't be serious," I've got a rucksack with my clothes and other necessities thrown over my shoulder, and a duffle with my laptop and a few other items in one hand. Billie is grinning at my obvious discomfort while loading her two oversized duffle bags into the trunk of what looks to be a beast of a car.

"Come on John, Lzzy won't bite, in fact she will just purr at you," now obviously gloating Billie starts loading my baggage and ushering me towards the passenger door. "She's a 1968 Dodge Charger, in pristine condition, minimal restoration and everything still factory standard. And she is my baby."

I stare at Billie as she loving runs her fingertips over the hood of the gleaming black beast sitting at the curb. I'll admit that the car is beautiful, smooth classic lines, while still maintaining the muscle look, and obviously well looked after. The man that dropped the car off is standing to the side with a look of deep amusement on his face, his American accent cutting through the foggy London night, "Easy there Doc, she won't bite and the car rides like a dream," at a sharp glance from Billie he quickly corrects himself, "Lzzy is a beast, and the kid over here can drive like hell." After listening to Billie's accent all this time I still find myself wondering at his words. An unmistakable twang laces the edges, probably the South if I had to guess. Where as Billie's accent would change even in the same sentence. She told me it was a result of moving around a lot as a child, but I've caught her drifting into a decidedly British accent, as well as dropping into a thick Scottish brogue, and an Irish lilt more than once. Another benefit to our excursion from London is that I'll be able to interrogate Billie more thoroughly about her past.

"I'll bear that in mind," I nod at the stranger before settling inside the car. The interior is done in pale gray and white, contrasting sharply with the black of the exterior. The only noticeable change to the car is in the form of an iPod dock. I shut my door and go about buckling in as Billie exchanges a few words with the man, they bump knuckles briefly then Billie is in the seat next to me, her iPod hooked up, belt on and the keys in the ignition. "You're sure you're capable driving backwards to everything you've done?" even as I ask the question she is rolling her eyes and firing up the engine. The rumble rips through the night and then settles in a low purr, I'm reminded of a crouching panther. Then she shifts with the ease of someone in their element and any further objections are slammed back down my throat with my next breath as we tear out of the city I love so well.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: So first off to answer a question, this fic takes place after the fall, but before the empty hearse. And no, John does not have that facial train wreck. And he will not ever in my little fiction world. And as to the question "is Sherlock dead?". Don't you wish I'd tell you. :) As always, thank you for the support, read and review my loves. And who knows, maybe there will be a new chapter up before you finish this one! Probably not, but soon.

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The Countryside

"I'm walking back to London," staggering up the steps of the two story house with my baggage, our flight from Baker Street replays through my head. Not only did Billie insist on trying to break all manner of land speed records, she considered a corner undrifted a corner wasted, we spent a solid half hour winding through the city, in her words "to make sure we were not followed." I had my suspicions she was just enjoyed being reunited with her beloved car.

"I'll just catch these killers on my own then, and have a nice cup of tea waiting at the flat," I could hear the smile in her voice, in fact I could almost feel it shining against my back. Standing at the top of the rough stone steps I pause to examine the house. Set off of the main road by a half mile gravel driveway winding behind a low hill, shielded from sight, the house itself was ringed by impressive pines and fir tree's scraping at the very sky. The first floor was surrounded by a porch on at least three sides, a low stone wall, made from the same rough stone as the steps, covered by a single roof. The house itself was a pale grey color, trimmed in white. The second story was topped by a peaked roof, a wide window looking out over the front yard. Large windows seemed to be the motif for this house, running along the first and second floors. Twirling her keys around her finger Billie steps past me and unlocks the door before stepping back and gesturing me forward.

Stepping inside my first impression is of space. The door opens into a kitchen that would easily take up the kitchen and living area of the flat. All gleaming stainless steel and pale wood floors, pale marble counter tops, and a island of the same wood that makes up the floor. The space is efficient, but not lived in. Billie had made a few calls and made sure the kitchen was stocked to her standards, and that various other chores had been done to make the house liveable. Other than that, the house feels brand new, as if no one had ever spent large amounts of time inside.

"There is a cleaning crew that sweeps through every week, but I've cancelled them until we leave, and groceries will be delivered every three days according to the online order. The house is set up with wifi, and has also been covered by Mycroft's people. Out here we should be untraceable, undetectable, and overall safe. The house was built by my father as a safe house for him, and our family. The windows are bulletproof, and there is a small armory in the basement. Your room is on the first floor, to the left off of the main living room. Third door down. I'm upstairs."

Journal

Sherlock, I've texted you the address of our safe house. Safe mansion more like. What it lacks in square footage it makes up for in every other possible way. Lestrade has finally come through like he promised contacting a few American friends and sending me the information on Moriarty from his days as a Harvard professor. Typical of him, teaching classes on criminals, profiling, and the like.

Billie has been going through the camera footage from the day she was shot, so far we have only the back of her assailants head, and his rather stubbly chin. With his collar turned up and a baseball cap pulled low over his brows, identifying him has become impossible. With every hour that we spend out of the city the tension climbs almost imperceptibly. Although the house hasn't been lived in for quite a while, there is still personal touches through out. Diplomas with the name Bill Walker on various walls, her father I'm guessing. Then there is a wall that is a veritable shrine to Billie. Several certificates from different martial arts groups, a sharpshooter award from an archery and gun club, and other self defense oriented groups. The basement is a training wonderland. An entire section with punching bags, speed bags, and several small targets that can be set to move about, a hand to hand paradise. A wall mounted with a multitude handguns, rifles, bows, and even a harpoon, of all things, faces a two stall shooting range. The remaining space is occupied with a treadmill, a couple of weight benches and a row of mats facing a mirror. Speakers mounted along the upper extremes of the walls allow for music to be blared at medically unsafe levels, as Billie has been demonstrating.

I don't know where you are Sherlock, or why you haven't contacted us, other than that lovely little "wrong" note, which your brother has effectively frozen in its tracks. However, this excursion into the countryside has revealed a bit more about the enigma that is my new flatmate. I do wish I had my old, and real, flatmate with me to uncover her secrets. It's time Sherlock. Time to put an end to this charade, and bring these killers down.

Thunder Rolls

A clap of thunder wakes me unceremoniously from a deep sleep, dreaming of my days as a soldier. For a second the past and present blur together, the thunder becoming the rumble of an IED taking out the rig in front of me, the lightning becoming muzzle flashes. Even as I'm reaching for my pistol on the bedstand, I come back into focus on the present. A quick check on the time reveals a black clock face, the storm must of knocked the power out somewhere. In the echoing silence, I can't help but wonder what I'm doing, out here in the middle of the countryside, running for my life, with an American girl with a bad attitude. As I lay there puzzling over the strange turns that my life had taken recently, the light sounds of guitar playing interrupt my gloomy thoughts. Before my half asleep brain can fully process the sound, a familiar voice chimes in. Billie is singing, playing and singing, at an unholy hour of the morning, and I know that I am not the only one bothered by storms. Laying there I listen as she hits a particularly soulful note, her voice breaking over as she sings of soldiers eyes, and coming home, I don't recognize the song, but it's one I would like to hear again. Eventually, I move dropping my bare toes to the ground, lightning crashes through the sky again, and the thunder rolling behind nips much closer on its heels. It seems as though we are in for the brunt of the weather, and I make my way out into the main living room, grateful for my first floor room.

The lightning hits again in a flash of white that nearly blinds me, but in the same second Billie looks up, all cheekbones and flashing eyes and curling hair, and the grief hits me harder than it has in over a year. She is so like him, in so many ways, and yet, they are so different. It's hard for me sometimes, to remember that Billie is not Sherlock. I want her to replace him. I want something to fill this hole in my heart. And yet, instead of taking Sherlock's spot, she has carved one out for herself. She's still staring at me, her fingers never breaking pattern, then she looks down and goes back to singing softly. Her soft voice haunts me as I go to the kitchen. She's singing that she will be home soon. I grab a bottle of water and listen as the last strains of sound fade away, leaving only the sound of rain pelting the roof, and wind whipping amongst the trees.

"What song was that?", I ask sipping from my water.

"Soldiers eyes, by Jack Savoretti," she answers before setting the instrument down gently. I glance at the table next to her, noting the pistol next to the glass of water. Even in her shorts and Army hoodie, she has a weapon on hand. She nods at the chair across from her and I take the hint, collapsing down.

"Well Doctor, now what?", the next flash of lightning catches her mid sip. I sigh and stretch my legs out.

"I was rather hoping that we would of heard from Sherlock by now, but as it hasn't happ-," I was cut off by a shrill ring. Billie frowned down at her cell phone and lifted it to her ear.

"What. No. I said no. Mycroft listen- No don't interrupt me you ass. No. Did you forget english you ass? Here, I'll put it in german. Nien. Mycroft Holmes do not you dare. What? Now? No. Absolutely no. I hope you crash on the way." She irritably jabbed the screen of her phone ending the call then stood up. "Brace yourself doctor, it seems we will have a house guest in the morning." At this the lights flickered back on, and she grinned grabbing her Ipod and making her way to the basement.


	13. The bright of day

A/N: Hey guys, new chappie just for you. 3 Some old questions answered here, but so many new ones arise. I'm leaving for my mock trial competition in the morning so wish me luck! Enjoy, read and review.

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An uninvited guest.

I had spent the rest of the night downstairs. With the power back on I tapped into my inner housewife and had started making breakfast. Nevermind that it had been around three in the morning when the power came back on. Billie was downstairs, and going by the volume she was playing her music at, she was working herself into the ground. I hadn't recognized a single song that she had played, but to my surprise I had liked them all. Who would of thought that Dr. John Watson would one day make pancakes to hard rock. It was nearly five now. I had gone full Betty Crocker, making cinnamon rolls, coffee, bacon, eggs, pancakes. Honestly I didn't know why I was making so much food. Billie had been blaring her music for close to two hours now. And the houseguest she promised hadn't arrived. Of course, most houseguests would consider arriving at five am a bit rude, but seeings how the last person she had spoken to was Mycroft, and that's who I suspected was coming, rude wasn't really a potential concern. The light above the sink flashed on and off three times, and Billie's music cut out. She had explained sent me a text about an hour ago explaining that every light in the house was wired to do this when a car ran over a special section of the driveway. There was a hidden camera set up, and a pressure plate buried in the dirt, so the lights only did this if both sensors registered a vehicle. The sound of water running reached my ears and I turned the stove off. Two minutes later the crunch of gravel under tires reached my ears as the coffee pot finished its business. Billie came up the stairs and in the kitchen her wet hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a pair of jean shorts, and a Guns and Roses shirt. She blinked at all of the food then grinned, and poured herself a cup of coffee and began loading up a plate. She ate leaning against the counter and set her plate down as a car door slammed. She switched her mug to her left hand, and pulled a pistol from the holster at the small of her back. I grinned at her briefly and drew my own weapon from the same type of holster. Footsteps rang out against the deck and a short rap set up against the door. We leveled the muzzles of our guns at the door in sync.

"Who's there?," Billie called calmly, sipping her coffee. An irritated sigh rang out and I set my pistol on the countertop. That was the type of noise that only a Holmes was capable of. Mycroft himself was her. "Now now Mycroft-kins, you know you have to say the password."

Mycroft-kins? I suppressed my laughter, imagining Mycroft Holmes allowing anyone to call him that. The laugh working its way past my lips died stillborn as the voice rang back out at her.

"En vino veritas," a deep rumble. Like a satin covered rockslide. Mystery and adventure. One part of my mind casually noted the latin phrase translated to "in wine there is truth", but the rest of my brain had gone on an adventure.

"Entrude then."

The door opened and the mug I was holding slipped through my fingers and slammed to the floor, spilling coffee everywhere. How the mug withstood the impact was a miracle. How my sanity had withstood this impact was nothing less than an act of God. Standing there, backlit by the first rays of dawn, was a tall figure in a long over coat, slim dress pants, shiny black shoes, and blue scarf wrapped around his pale throat, black curls dripping over and into his fog colored eyes. Sherlock.

Billie looked at me and lowered her gun, "Mycroft, why is it that everytime someone sees you they feel the need to drop things?"

"You didn't drop your coffee, you threw it at my face."

"Its what you get for talking."

The back and forth between them was familiar, but not warm. When he was speaking to her, Sherlock adopted his brothers haughty mannerisms, very muchly acting the part of the super important government dog. But when he looked at me, the pretentious attitude dropped, and instead he had a look on his face I had seen once before. It had been at the pool, when I had been wearing a parka made of explosives, and he had believed for a split second that I had been Moriarty all along. He looked vulnerable, and scared.

"Hello John." He took a step closer and I leaned heavily against the counter.

"Sherlock…" Billie blinked at me and then snapped her head back to look at Sherlock. He smiled slightly and raised his hand.

"Not dead."

I lunged at him swinging my fist at his face.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the delay in posting, but this scene just did not want to be written. I've had a few questions come in, so I'll try to answer them to the best of my ability. First off, in regards to the question about the timeline of this piece. It's post Fall, but pre- empty hearse. Sherlock is very muchly alive. I didn't want to answer this before, because it would of given up the game. Secondly, in regards to the "wrong note" check back onto chapter 8. And Lastly, there have been a few typos, but my usual editor is busy with her life. The nerve. In any case, here is an embarrassingly short chapter, but I will be fighting to continue it. The next chapter will deal with Sherlock and his explanation of his faked suicide, how he did it, and so on. Trying to keep everyone in character, and make the story stay believable is not as easy as I'd hoped. But worry not, I'll struggle on! Enough of my rambling. On to better things! **

The sound of a fist smacking into flesh echoed around the kitchen. It took me a second to register that my fist didn't collide with Sherlock's face, instead Billie had caught it in a lovely armblock. She narrowed her eyes at me and then pushed me back."John, why are you attacking Mycroft? Or more specifically why are you attacking the person that's been claiming to be Mycroft, that you just called Sherlock?" After pushing me back she turned to glare at Sherlock. I kept stumbling backwards until the backs of my knees slammed into the chair. As I sank down, Billie moved between us with a protective look on her face. She glared at Sherlock with a deadly look in her eyes. He made to step forward and stopped when Billie leveled the muzzle of her pistol at his chest. "John. Explain. Or Holmes. If you even are that. What else have you lied about?," their glares hit and sparked in the air. Sherlock was the first to look away, rare for him. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I didn't die. I faked it. I had to. You don't understand," Sherlock kept glancing between me and Billie, trying to connect with us. "You're right. I don't understand, you pose as your brother, lie to me, and I won't even start on what you've done to John. Damn you. You were supposed to be his friend, you were supposed to be someone he could trust, and this is what you do with that trust. If you ask me, you were better off dead, than coming back and proving what scum you truly are. You should've left a good memory for John," I blinked at this. I never expected someone to take stand up for me like this. Sherlock used to be my protector, but now, he was on the other side of the fight. He was facing off against someone who was prepared to go to the mat for me. "Billie, it's okay, just let him… let him explain," her defensive attitude was heartwarming. But I needed to know, I had to know why he had, why he had left me. She turned and glanced at me over her shoulder, then scowled and stepped to the side. She gestured shortly for Sherlock to continue. I just stared at him. His hair was longer, still wild and curly, his eyes were the same shifting colors, but instead of being narrowed in thought they were wide open, and vulnerable. He took a step forward, releasing the door and letting it fall back into its frame. Now the three of us were shut in together. Billie was hostile, Sherlock was frighteningly timid, and I was in shock. The silence and tension rose, growing thicker by the second until Billie shook us out of it. She grabbed her forgotten plate of food, gently set her weapon on the countertop, picked up her coffee cup and gracefully sat down crossed legged on the floor. Sherlock visibly relaxed with her pistol out of her hand, and he too sank down in a cross legged position. It struck me again just how alike they looked, it helped to cut through the fog that had formed in my brain since Sherlock had walked in the door. I was still waiting for the dream to end, or the nightmare, I wasn't sure which it was yet. The two sitting on the floor looked more like siblings than Sherlock and Mycroft did. Billie paused in her eating and let her hair down shaking it out so the partially dry strands fell into their natural curl. Dark curling hair, flashing incandescent eyes, high cheek bones, and both had an affinity for danger. Billie crunched through a piece of bacon, and Sherlock finally looked up at me. I stared back at him, his mask was back in place, hiding his emotions behind a porcelain shell. "Well?" We both jumped, Billie looked up at both of us, her eyes narrowed, "get on with it. Clear the air between yourselves, while I clear my plate yeah?" Sherlock cleared his throat, then sighed deeply. He was stalling, and I balled my hand up into a fist on my leg. The fine tremors that had plagued me before I had met Sherlock were starting up again. With him sitting in front of me, the memory of all the pain, the grief, the achingly deep loneliness, it all came back. Billie was staring into her coffee cup and swirling the contents slowly. With every second that dragged on, more and more of my sanity was slowly eroding away. The screaming of my mind was roaring higher and higher, and just when I felt like I was about to tear in two, Billie started humming. Instantly all of my brain focused in on the tune, sifting through our time together, trying to place the melody. Finally it clicked, it was a song she had been singing a month ago, shortly after we had reached an agreement about my PTSD. We had been in the local market picking up a few groceries, when an old rock and roll song had come on over the loudspeaker. It was the first time that she had sang in front of me, purely for the fun of it, there had been no danger of an attack for me, but she had belted out the lyrics anyway. She had turned it into a full performance in the cereal aisle, and I had ended up bent double laughing so hard tears ran down my face. The quiet humming of Carry on my Wayward son by Kansas, took me back to that carefree moment, and soothed my nerves. Sherlock was staring at her blankly, but as my hands relaxed, I watched the comprehension flow across his face. I knew in that second that my suspicions about his midnight violin playing had been right. A small smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he watched her hum. "Sherlock, its time." I was back in control. Sherlock turned back to me and bowed his head slightly. "Yes. I suppose it is, isn't it?"


End file.
